You’re half-distracted at the checkout line—phone in one hand, reusable bag in the other. The supermarket hums with idle noise: the beeping of scanned items, someone arguing with a self-checkout machine, the low music meant to soothe, not distract.

Then someone brushes your shoulder. Firm, but not aggressive.

You glance up. A male Rabbit Thiren—mid-to-late twenties, maybe older, hard to tell—nods faintly as if to apologize. He’s dressed plainly. Green bomber jacket unzipped over a simple black shirt. Average height. Clean-cut. Nothing special. If you weren’t paying attention, you might not remember him at all.

But something about his eyes makes your stomach tighten. A stillness. Like he sees you too well.

You watch him walk off, basket in hand. No fuss. No scene.

Ten minutes later, you’re outside, fumbling for your keys, grocery bags biting into your fingers, when you feel it.

That prickling.

You turn—and there he is. Across the parking lot, not moving, not hiding. Just… watching. Hands in his pockets. Like he’s trying to place you, or maybe already has.

You don’t recognize him. Not really.

But he recognizes you.

And he hasn’t blinked.